She had already perceived that there was no card with the flowers, and there was only one person in her estimation who could have sent them. Reed Gallagher.
‘I—I’m very grateful, Mrs Francis,’ she said now, hoping the garrulous caretaker’s wife would not pursue the subject, but she was disappointed.
‘I had to put them in the sink,’ Mrs Francis, continued, looking beyond Antonia, into the living room. ‘I … er … I didn’t like to look for a vase, and as there were so many …’
‘Yes. Well, thank you.’ Antonia lifted her shoulders apologetically. ‘I’ll find something.’
‘I could lend you a vase, or maybe two, if you need them,’ offered Mrs Francis helpfully, but Antonia was adamant.
‘I’m sure I can manage,’ she refused politely, feeling distinctly mean for not satisfying the older woman’s curiosity. But how could she tell Mrs Francis that Celia Lytton-Smythe’s fiancé had sent her the flowers? How dare Reed Gallagher put her in this position?
‘Well, if you’re sure …’ Reluctantly, Mrs Francis was having to abandon her enquiries. ‘You’re a lucky girl!’ she remarked, starting back across the hall. ‘They must have cost someone a pretty penny.’
Antonia smiled again to soften her words. ‘I’m sure they must,’ she agreed, and closed the door firmly before any further comment could be made.
Nevertheless, as she filled every bowl and jug and milk bottle she possessed with the softly scented blossoms, Antonia couldn’t help inhaling their delicious fragrance. She had never possessed so many flowers in her life before, and while her initial instinct had been to return the bouquet to its sender, the practicalities of such an action deterred her. For one thing, she had no idea where Reed Gallagher lived or worked, and even if she had, could she take the risk of embarrassing Celia should she be with him at the time? In addition to which, there was always the possibility—however slight—that Reed Gallagher might not have sent them. How ridiculous she would look if she returned the flowers to him and he knew nothing about them!
One final solution occurred, but it was one she did not consider for long. The idea of returning the flowers to the shop that had sent them did not appeal to her at all. She could not consign such delicate blooms to instant destruction, and besides, if Reed had sent the flowers anonymously, as she suspected, he might never learn of her sacrifice.
Stifling her conscience with this thought, she found she derived a great deal of pleasure from the colour they gave to her rather dull living room. Coming into the flat after a day’s work, she found herself anticipating their vivid presence, and when they eventually began to fade, she bought herself some daffodils to mitigate their loss.
She spoke to Susie again on the phone, and promised her the days to her birthday would soon pass. ‘I’ll come on the six o’clock train next Friday evening,’ she told her mother, a week before she was due to leave. ‘I’m looking forward to it so much. It seems much more than eight weeks since I came to London.’
The weekend was uneventful. She guessed Celia and her friend must have gone away, for there was no sound from the apartment upstairs all Saturday and Sunday. Antonia spent the time giving her kitchen a brightening lick of paint, and determinedly avoiding the inevitable comparisons between this weekend and last.
On Monday evening, however, she came face to face with Celia in the entrance hall. The other girl was on her way out as she arrived home, and the bunch of daffodils in Antonia’s hand drew Celia’s attention.
‘Aren’t they lovely!’ she exclaimed, bending her head to inhale their fragrance. ‘I love spring flowers, don’t you?’ Then her eyes took on a mischievious glint. ‘Of course, you do. Mrs Francis told me someone sent you absolutely loads of them!’
Antonia caught her breath. She should have realised that if Mrs Francis gossiped to her, she would gossip to her other tenants as well. ‘Oh—yes,’ she managed now. ‘I … was rather fortunate. A … a friend from work. He … he sent them.’
Now why had she said that? she asked herself impatiently, as Celia nodded her head. Who at the institute was likely to send her flowers? And how could she be sure Reed hadn’t confided his generosity to his fiancée?
‘I love receiving flowers,’ Celia was saying now, her words justifying Antonia’s caution. ‘Reed sends me roses all the time. He knows I love them.’
Antonia moistened her lips. ‘You’re very lucky.’
‘Yes, I am.’ Celia sighed contentedly, and Antonia felt the biggest bitch of all time. ‘Did you see my ring?’ She extended her hand. ‘Isn’t it gorgeous?’
It was. A large square-cut sapphire, surrounded by a cluster of diamonds, it glowed, even in the subdued light of the hall, and Antonia did not have to affect her admiration. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, her smile warmly sincere. ‘When … when are you getting married? Or haven’t you decided yet?’
‘In December, I think,’ Celia replied, admiring the ring herself. ‘Reed’s pretty tied up until then, but I’m hoping we can have a Christmas honeymoon.’
‘How nice.’
Antonia’s tone was a little forced now, but Celia didn’t seem to notice. ‘Yes, isn’t it?’ she responded, lifting her shoulders. ‘But now, enough about me, I’ve not seen you since the party: how did you enjoy it?’
‘Oh—–’ Antonia swallowed. ‘It was … very enjoyable. I’m sorry. I should have rung. But what with one thing and another—–’
‘Think nothing of it.’ Celia shook her head dismissively. ‘I just hoped you hadn’t taken offence over the way Liz acted. She can be pretty bloody sometimes, and that was one of them. She’s really quite charming, when you get to know her.’
Antonia cleared her throat. ‘I—I’m sure she is. Really, it’s not important. It was your night, after all.’
‘What did you think of Reed?’ asked Celia suddenly, and Antonia had the suspicion she had been leading up to this all along. ‘You spoke with him, didn’t you? Isn’t he something?’
The daffodils slipped abruptly from Antonia’s fingers, and in the confusion of bending to pick them up, Celia’s question was left unanswered. ‘I must go,’ she said, her mind obviously already on other things. She glanced at her watch. ‘I’m meeting Daddy in fifteen minutes, and he won’t be very happy if I’m late. By—eee.’
‘Goodbye.’
Antonia summoned a farewell smile, but after Celia had disappeared out the door, she felt a wave of weariness sweep over her. It seemed more than five years since she had been as young and vital as Celia, she thought. Had she ever been that young? she wondered wistfully.
Tuesday brought a spate of accidents at the institute. Heather Jakes stumbled up the steps that morning and sprained her wrist, thus preventing her from doing any typing that day; Mark Stephens, the caretaker, strained his back shifting boxes in the storeroom; and Mr Fenwick split his trousers on his way to work and in consequence, didn’t appear at all until eleven o’clock.
‘Probably due to all those marshmallows he keeps eating,’ remarked Heather uncharitably, coming into Antonia’s office to deliver the message. She held out her bandaged wrist for the other girl’s inspection. ‘It’s just as well really. I can’t do much with this.’
‘No.’ Antonia grimaced. ‘I just hope Mr Stephens is all right, too. He’s really too old to be lifting such heavy weights.’
‘Tell that to the governors,’ declared Heather airily, sauntering back to the door. ‘They’re all for keeping costs down, which in lay terms means employing fewer people. You don’t know how lucky you were, getting this job!’
‘Oh, I do.’ Antonia spoke fervently. ‘I have been looking for a job for a long time, Heather.’
‘Hmm.’